hold of his throat and choke him for half a guinea”; Mr. Cruncher

dwelt upon this as quite a liberal offer; “or I’ll out and announce

him.”

“Humph! I see one thing,” said Carton. “I hold another card,

Mr. Barsad. Impossible, here in raging Paris, with Suspicion filling

the air, for you to outlive denunciation, when you are in

communication with another aristocratic spy of the same

antecedents as yourself, who, moreover, has the mystery about

him of having feigned death and come to life again! A plot in the

prisons, of the foreigner against the Republic. A strong carda

certain Guillotine card! Do you play?”

“No!” returned the spy. “I throw up. I confess that we were so

unpopular with the outrageous mob, that I only got away from

England at the risk of being ducked to death, and that Cly was so

ferreted up and down, that he never would have got away at all

but for that sham. Though how this man knows it was a sham, is a

Charles Dickens ElecBook Classics

wonder of wonders to me.”

“Never you trouble your head about this man,” retorted the

contentious Mr. Cruncher; “you’ll have trouble enough with giving

your attention to that gentleman. And look here! Once more!”

Mr. Cruncher could not be restrained from making rather an

ostentatious parade of his liberality“I’d catch hold of your throat

and choke you for half a guinea.”

The Sheep of the prisons turned from him to Sydney Carton,

and said, with more decision, “It has come to a point. I go on duty

soon, and can’t overstay my time. You told me you had a proposal;

what is it? Now, it is of no use asking too much of me. Ask me to

do anything in my office, putting my head in great extra danger,

and I had better trust my life to the chances of a refusal than the

chances of consent. In short, I should make that choice. You talk of

desperation. We are all desperate here. Remember! I may

denounce you if I think proper, and I can swear my way through

stone walls, and so can others. Now, what do you want with me?”

“Not very much. You are a turnkey at the Conciergerie?”

“I tell you once for all, there is no such thing as an escape

possible,” said the spy firmly.

“Why need you tell me what I have not asked? You are a

turnkey at the Conciergerie?”

“I am sometimes.”

“You can be when you choose?”

“I can pass in and out when I choose.”

Sydney Carton filled another glass with brandy, poured it

slowly out upon the hearth, and watched it as it dropped. It being

all spent, he said, rising:

“So far, we have spoken before these two, because it was as well

Charles Dickens ElecBook Classics

that the merits of the cards should not rest solely between you and

me. Come into the dark room here, and let us have one final word

alone.”